Love Is
by The Starhorse
Summary: One shots, with various characters displaying the virtures of Love. Ten points and a cookie to anyone who catches the reference on these chapter titles.
1. Love Is Patient

**Love Is Patient  
**(11 June, 2006)

Horse's note: I read a quick blurb written by MCat (how the heck does one create a link on this thing?), and the bug bit me to write what sort of amounts to the Autobots' side of the same coin. To MCat: Mad props, G. ;)

* * *

"Oh, yes, retreat," Starscream griped as the Decepticons sped away into the skies. "What a brilliant maneuver, _mighty_ Megatron."

"Shut you guzzler, Starscream," Megatron snapped. "And stop calling me that, or I will have your head _on my wall_."

* * *

Prime chuckled as he watched the Decepticons wing away, and turned to make his way down to the road, shaking his head all the while. "You know," he said, his rich voice rife with stoicism, "I don't know why he lets Starscream get to him."

"Perhaps," Prowl put in from his side, "it is because Starscream is annoying."

"Ah, but Prowl," Prime held up a finger, optics full of mirth, "patience is the virtue of any great leader. And if Megatron cannot summon the patience to endure with grace one of his underlings, then perhaps he doesn't have what it takes to win this war."

"Ah yes," Sideswipe nodded sagely from Prime's other side, "well said, _mighty_ Prime."

All three laughed at that.

* * *

But it didn't stop there.

"Sideswipe," Prime hailed the Lamborghini ahead of him.

"Yes, mighty Prime?"

Ignoring him stoutly, Prime simply commanded, "You and your brother scout ahead and make sure that ambush has been cleared through that canyon pass."

"Oh our way, mighty Prime," Sideswipe cheeked back, and Prowl watched from Prime's left as the two colorful warriors sped off with a whoop.

* * *

"Sideswipe," Prime barked. "What is the meaning of this?"

Prowl shifted his flat gaze to the quivering tower of Spam, which had been roughly shaped into the likeness of the Autobot commander. At the foot of the 'statue' was a placard that read: For Our _Great_ Leader. Prime was standing nearby, looking rather sickened at the ghastly mass. Arms crossed, he stared down at the brothers, who had been summoned to explain.

Sideswipe merely shrugged. "In effigy to your greatness, O Mighty One."

"Sideswipe –" Prime raised a finger, optics smoldering. But at once he seemed to remember his own advice regarding patience, and instead of launching into the lecture, merely uttered one sharp sigh, and said, "Clean it up. Now."

"Yes, mighty Prime," Sideswipe bowed, and backed away.

Sunstreaker, to his inestimable credit, kept a straight face.

* * *

Prime strolled in to the watch station after a night of catching up on paperwork. Prowl knew he'd gotten only the barest scraps of cycle-down time, and his defenses were at their lowest ebb.

Too bad for him, because Sideswipe was just ending his tour of watch duty. And missing a night of sleep never seemed to affect the warrior in the least.

"Report," Prime muttered automatically. Prowl winced.

"All quiet, _mighty_ Prime," Sideswipe crowed with the hearty enthusiasm of a bright, sparkling rooster.

Prime stopped in his tracks. This had been going on for weeks, and by the crusty look to his face, he was one snort shy of falling into a comatose heap. Which pretty much meant that his sense of humor was buried somewhere up the deep, dark recesses of his aft. "Sideswipe," he grated, without even deigning to look at the warrior, "don't you think…that this little joke…has gone on long enough?"

"Oh, yes, mighty Prime," Sideswipe agreed readily.

"Then cut it…the slag…OUT."

"Yes, mighty Prime!"

* * *

Cleanup had gone well, and the camera crews were just getting a shot of the mayor thanking the Autobots in person.

"And so," the mayor was saying, "it gives me great honor to once again extend our thanks to the hard-working efforts of you brave and noble Autobots."

Cheers and clapping sounded from all around, and Prime extended a hand to gingerly shake hands with the mayor of Portland. In turn, Prowl did the same.

"But," the mayor squared his shoulders, looking beyond the two Autobots before him, "we should thank some of your troops themselves." Beaming, he invited, "Let's get them over here! I'd like to shake hands with them as well."

"You're very kind," Prime said graciously, "but most of them are busy. Of course, we might be able to spare one…Hey, Sideswipe!"

Prowl winced. Noticeably.

So did Prime, when he realized what he'd just done.

The red warrior dropped the rubbish he'd been carrying, and traipsed over to where Prime and the humans were standing, jaunting and beaming like someone with a time bomb in his back pocket. On cue, as he neared his leader, he swept into deep and decorous bow, complete with flourish, and said, "Yes, O Mighty Prime?"

Slowly, ever so slowly, Prowl closed and then opened his optics in, a long, excruciating blink.

The mayor chuckled, though he gave Sideswipe an odd (yet, to his credit, still quite polite) look. "They're very civil, your Autobots," he said generously.

"Of course," Sideswipe nodded a graceful and courtly bow in the mayor's direction. "We all endeavor to one day be like our mighty, magnanimous, magnetic leader."

Magnetic? Primus almighty, and he was being alliterative, too. Prowl made a mental note to kill the warrior later for this. Perhaps _mutilate_ him. That would alliterate nicely enough.

"Ah, hah, yes," the mayor nodded genially in return. He extended a hand, which Sideswipe took with such a look of charm that the crowd burst into its loudest round of applause yet. Damn him for being so naturally good looking.

"We—ell," Prime attempted a ghastly smile. "Thank you, Sideswipe."

"Anything for our fearless leader," Sideswipe bowed in Prime's direction.

"Perhaps we'll let Sideswipe get back to work," Prime suggested gently toward the mayor.

"Ah yes, go," the mayor agreed, though he stuck out his hand once more. Apparently Sideswipe's charm worked on humans, too, and Prowl watched mirthlessly while the mayor shook the warrior's hand yet again, smiling all the time. "Thank you, thank you for all of your hard work," he said sincerely. "And please tell your comrades that, on behalf of the entire city, I extend my thanks."

"You're too kind," Sideswipe replied, shaking his hand once more, and smiling that damned smile. "We're just doing our job." Ah, the mock humility. It was more than Prowl could bear. Primus only knew how Prime was holding up.

But the mayor only laughed, sounding as indulgent as a father over his favorite son. "Yes, well, don't let me keep you from your work."

"Yes," Prime attempted one more horrible smile in Sideswipe's direction. "Go back to your duties now, Sideswipe."

"Yes, mighty Prime," Sideswipe grinned and bowed, and was gone in a flourish of red and black.

He was so dead.

* * *

"But Prime," Sideswipe quoted merrily, "patience is the virtue of any great leader."

Coiling behind his desk, the pistons in his arms and legs wound so tight that Prowl could all but hear them popping, Prime regarded the warrior standing before him with the half-maniacal gaze of an angry cobra. "Do you…" he grated through a clenched jaw, "…have any…idea…how important…our relationship with the humans is? Do you?"

Hands clasped behind his back in the position of parade rest, Sideswipe nodded happily. "Yes, Prime."

Prime regarded him for a long, long time, and Prowl thought that if this went on any longer, the Autobot Commander was is serious danger of finally and remorselessly murdering one of his own soldiers. Funny, he'd always thought it would be Sunstreaker.

But it was not to be today. Somewhere, somehow, Prime seemed to find his last and most precious dregs of fortitude, and though Prowl observed that it was costing him the last few shreds of his sanity, the CO raised a shaky finger toward the door. "Just…" he started, then let out a strangled sound that was somewhere between a rasp and a growl, "…just…go."

"Yes, mighty Prime!" Sideswipe sang out, and made a mad dash for the door.

Good thing the warrior was quick, was all Prowl had to say.

* * *

"Sideswipe," Prime snapped, tired and dirty from a long day on the battlefield, and in no mood to talk nicely to anyone.

"Yes, mighty Prime!" Sideswipe all but skipped over to where Prime and Prowl were standing with Megatron, Starscream, and Soundwave. They'd just formed an impromptu negotiations party, and Prime had wanted to round out the Autobots numbers to match the Decepticons'. Unfortunately for him, Sideswipe was the closest and least damaged of his choices.

For a moment, Prime held Megatron's gaze, as though about to continue their talks, but at once the great Autobot turned on the red warrior with a snarl. "Would you stop that!"

"Yes, mighty Prime!" Sideswipe crowed, complete with salute.

The Decepticons watched with what Prowl could only describe as a kind of bizarre look.

"Oh, for the –" Prime clenched and unclenched his fists, obviously one short-circuit away from firing, "—for the love of—SIDESWIPE, for Primus' SAKE, _would you stop that_!"

Sideswipe grinned.

He wouldn't.

"As you wish, mighty Prime."

He would.

And it was more than Prime could take.

With a roar, and a complete abandon of reason, the Autobot commander turned on the red warrior and grabbed him by the throat. Optics flashing white, Prime bellowed an insensible string of profanities as he thrashed the warrior through the air like a ragdoll, his faceplate transformed into a mask of rage, and it seemed to Prowl quite suddenly that Sideswipe was about to get his mutilation after all.

As for Megatron, Prowl could have sworn he heard the Decepticon commander giggle.

"Come on, Starscream, Soundwave," Megatron said finally, his face alight with the pure satisfaction that for once, Prime was having a much worse day than he was. "We got what we wanted. Let's go home."

With a sigh, and making no attempt to pry his commander off of the hapless warrior, Prowl quietly watched them go.

* * *

"You know, Starscream," Megatron noted once they were airborne, "it only marks what I've been saying all these years. Any commander who lets his underlings get to him like that is clearly weak, and will never win this war."

"I agree, mighty Megatron," Starscream put in nicely.

"Well, it's only common sense," Megatron came back, "that patience is the virtue of any great leader."

"Clearly, Mighty Megatron."

"Too bad the Autobots will never learn."

"Yes, mighty Megatron," Starscream sighed, as he banked for home, "it's too bad."


	2. Love Is Kind

**Love Is Kind**

Mirage sat cross-legged in his cell, his face impassive, his optics cool under the pulsing light of the energy bars. He would betray no emotion, and neither would he yield; this, Ravage knew. But he would weaken, and as the years went by, ultimately, he would crumble, and the cat only wished to be there to see it.

_You know,_ Ravage said in his unique dialect of Cybertronian, as he regarded his ages-old foe, _no matter how hard you try, you can never match my skills._

Impassively, calmly, the Autobot on the other side of the bars did not move, and only gazed quietly on the cat. He had shown no surprise at Ravage's approach, no sign of foreboding, because it had always been this way. Prisoners came and went through the dank bowels of the Decepticon brig, but when Mirage was a guest, Ravage always came for him. Alone. And then the games began.

_What_, the cat purred, and sat curling his tail around his forefeet, _no witty repartee before we begin with the entertainment?_

The look on Mirage's face did not change, but he raised his chin just so, and if Ravage had hoped to se defeat in the well of the Autobot's optics, he saw now that he would be very disappointed. "Really," the Autobot replied, voice smooth and low in the soft dim, "don't you think we're a little beyond the insults stage by now?"

Ravage chuckled, optics gleaming red. _I should say not_, he rumbled, pleased, and all but purring. _You do know I take such enjoyment at your expense._

"And I yours," Mirage answered smoothly, optics full of steel.

Ravage tilted his head. _Am I to believe, then_, he asked, _that after all these year, you still think yourself to be in my league?_

At that, Mirage chuckled, a rich, cultured sound that rolled over the audios like fine drink over the tongue. "Ah, no," he laughed politely, his impassive face never changing, "no, indeed, my dear amateur, I believe that I am out of your league entirely."

The end of Ravage's tail twitched but only just. The fine, cultured mech before him would never do him the pleasure of showing fear; that, Ravage knew. Neither would he ever admit defeat, no matter what the cat inflicted, and that, above all, made Ravage nearly admire him. _So_, he rumbled, after a pause, _shall we get on with it then?_

Still cross-legged, hands placed lightly on his knees, Mirage regarded the cat evenly. It was always this way, and always would be; the Autobot knew it to be so. Other prisoners, Ravage ignored, but Mirage was…special…and the Decepticon cat would have his pleasure no matter what Mirage or anyone thought about it. "You know I do not fear you," the Autobot said.

And Ravage smiled, just a showing of teeth, and asked, _Shall I let you choose what it will be?_

"What," the Autobot came back, voice velvet, "and take away the surprise?"

_As you wish._ The cat moved to the door of Mirage's cell in one dark, sinuous motion. With one fine claw, he unlatched the lock, and out of subspace, he pulled a flat, white box. _To your liking?_ he purred, optics narrowed and bright.

And quite suddenly, Mirage's smooth face split into a most disarming smile. "Excellent! We haven't played Life in ages." He looked up, and added, "You do know it would be terribly dull in here without your visits."

With surprising dexterity for a cat, Ravage was already arranging the board. _Yes, well, you will remember to scream once in a while. Appearances and all._

"Oh, of course, of course, you can scratch me up later as you like. Hey," the Autobot asked as he selected the blue car and set it down on the square marked 'start', "are we playing by those rules which allow one to sell one's children on the black market?"

_Of course_, the cat nodded. _To do otherwise would be boorish._

"Good," Mirage replied, helping to set the last pieces on the board. "Because the rules that came with the box are so five minutes ago."

_Now, you know I go first_, Ravage reminded him. _Home advantage and all._

"Yes, yes, of course," Mirage assured him in that cultured way of his. Then he added, without looking up, "It's been entirely too long, you know."

_Yes, it has_, Ravage agreed as he sank down to lay on the opposite side of the board. With one paw, he reached out to spin the dial, and watched the numbers blurr. _Too long, indeed._


	3. It Shall Not Envy

**It Shall Not Envy  
**(22 June 2006)

Sideswipe was lounging peacefully in his new quarters, one leg slung up on the table before him, one leg draped over the arm of the chair as he scanned through the Welcome-to-Earth-Suckers packet Prowl had put together. Terrain maps, economy charts, geological history, supposed human culture…it was all there in the datapad, and Sideswipe figured he'd better tackle it sooner than later. He was a champ at getting out of unnecessary drudge work, and this did qualify as a painful read. But even worse than slogging through this pile of boring data was being out of the loop, so while no one was looking, Sideswipe figured he better study up.

Without so much as a knock, Sunstreaker breezed on in and _accidentally_ brushed by Sideswipe's table-slung leg with enough force to knock it to the ground. Hands on his hips, and ignoring a bit of a glower from his brother, Sunstreaker surveyed Sideswipe's quarters. "Nice digs," he commented.

"Would be nicer if the ugly slagger with the attitude would get out," Sideswipe retorted.

"Then leave."

"Ooh, good one," Sideswipe rolled his optics. Did you practice that on in the mirror? Oh wait – you do everything in front of the mirror. What was I thinking?"

Sunstreaker slithered a flat stare toward his brother, but chose not to comment. Instead, he ran his gaze over the room once more, and then began his trademarked bitching. "So whose exhaust pipe did you service to get this room?"

Sideswipe screwed up his face. "Nice visual, bro."

"Slag me," Sunstreaker stalked over to the corner of the room, where a stream of light poured through a window well that had been drilled through the rock. "You have a window. How the slag did you rate a window?"

Snorting, Sideswipe threw down the datapad. "Yesterday, you were moaning about the sun bleaching your enamel. Now you want a window?"

Glaring at the offending pane of plexiglass, Sunstreaker crossed his arms in a humph. "My room's a hole compared to this."

"So?"

"So give me yours." Sunstreaker turned to look down at his brother. "Now. You can move your stuff before your next shift."

"Like hell," Sideswipe sat up straight and slid his other leg to the ground. "You don't like your room? Go do your piss-n-moan bit for Ironhide. But keep your pretty-mech mitts off my room."

"Slag you, slagger," Sunstreaker snapped.

"Same to you, now slag off."

Sunstreaker left in his usual huff.

* * *

They'd only been on Earth for a few weeks now, and with the help of the humans Spike and Sparkplug, everyone was doing his best to adjust to the alien planet. But there was only so much the humans could do, and smoothing out the general internal rumblings of the Ark's rabble crew wasn't one of those things. For starters, Tracks had an unholy obsession with eradicating every mite of dust from his life, which was really a daunting feat, considering the Earthen terrain. Secondly, due to his new and sloppy and therefore mightily non-sterile working environment, Ratchet's mood had been relegated to that of a wildly offended helio-boar. He'd been ranting and fritzing since they'd awakened here on this mud-ball, and within that short time there had been no fewer than fifteen Ratchet-related injuries, and at least two Ratchet-induced KOs. Sideswipe, for his part, was impressed with the burly medic. 

But that wasn't all, because thirdly, Sunstreaker, who was possibly the only Autobot on the planet who felt this way, still was not happy about his living arrangements. By all rights, he should have been. Back on Cybertron, space had been scarce, and they'd all been stuffed into crowded bays with rows of bunks and no privacy to speak of. Now that they'd crashed on Earth, and since not everyone had been revived yet, there were gads of rooms to spare. In fact, for the first time in Sideswipe's memory as an Autobot, he had a room to himself, and he had to admit that he liked it. For one, it certainly gave him a nice staging ground for planning various nefarious things, and secondly, it was just nice to have something of his own.

But Sunstreaker wasn't having it.

"I hate my room," he sulked, slouching against Sideswipe's wall.

"What's wrong with it now?" Sideswipe asked, without looking up from tinkering with an Earthen gaming console. The humans had something called 'Atari', and he was bound and determined to fix up some Autobot-sized controls on this one, and see what it was all about.

"Well, for starters," Sunstreaker replied, "it's too small."

"It's the same size as my room!" Sideswipe looked up, incredulous.

"It is not."

Sideswipe threw down a tool. "It's an Alpha-deck room, Sunstreaker. They're all the same dimensions. Primus."

Sunstreaker continued to simmer. "It's smaller, I swear. Come see for yourself."

"I'm busy." Sideswipe bent back over his work. Primus, what a nag.

"Well, if you think they're the same then switch with me," Sunstreaker demanded for the five-billionth time.

And for the five-billionth time, Sideswipe told him no. "No, no, no, no, NO, Sunstreaker. For Primus' sake, no. And go away. I've got stuff to do."

"Fine," Sunstreaker grumbled, and quit the room in a sulky brood.

* * *

Not two hours later, he was back. Striding into the room, he came to stand in front of Sideswipe's work table and crossed his arm. Optics frosted, he glared down at his brother, and without preamble, he said, "My room smells of minibot." 

"What?" Sideswipe looked up, soldering iron smoking in one hand.

"I said," Sunstreaker repeated himself imperiously, "that it smells of minibot. And it does. It's awful."

"How the hell," Sideswipe asked, lowering the iron into its holder, "does a room smell like a minibot?"

"I don't know. It just does."

"Slagging hell, Sunstreaker," Sideswipe gave him another unbelieving look, "how does a minibot smell like anything?"

Arms crossed, Sunstreaker balled into himself, and looked for all the world like the universe's most longsuffering martyr. "Like I said, I don't know. But Windcharger's room is on the other side of mine, and I can smell wafting waves of minibot at all hours of the day and night. And I swear to Primus, it's driving me mad."

"Oh, I'll tell you what's driving me mad," Sideswipe informed his brother as he rose and began ushering him forcibly from the room. "_You_ are driving me mad. Talk of minibot smells and magically smaller rooms, my _aft_, Sunstreaker. Now go _away_."

With a final shove, Sideswipe ejected his brother from his room, and hit the lock for good measure. Dumb slagger anyway.

* * *

The next day, he was at it again. At breakfast, Sunstreaker made his announcement over a cup of mid-grade. "The floor of my room goes downhill." 

"Downhill." Sideswipe leveled his brother with a look.

Sunstreaker nodded. "From north to south, it slopes."

"Well," Sideswipe pointed out after a sip, "my floor doesn't slope."

"Yeah? Well, that's your floor, and it's different," Sunstreaker replied.

"No, it is not different," Sideswipe countered, his voice rising ever so much. "It's the same deck, same room as yours, just one room over, so if your floor was going downhill, then my floor would go downhill. And my floor isn't going downhill, Sunstreaker."

"Well, mine is," Sunstreaker huffed.

"You're a nut."

"So if your floor doesn't go downhill, then give me your room," Sunstreaker demanded in that nasally whine he always managed when he wasn't getting his way.

Sideswipe sat back, and took another long pull of his drink. "No."

"I hate you," was the sullen response.

"Good."

* * *

After that, Sideswipe rather hoped that Sunstreaker would stop, but he didn't. In fact, he got worse. Over the next several days, Sideswipe fielded complaints about how Sunstreaker's room had developed a draft, how the lights flickered in dire subliminal patterns, how the walls hummed, how the pipes banged, and how, during the wee hours of the night, the room's audio systems tuned into a sports radio talk show out of Laos. That sparked an entire litany about how Sunstreaker's room was haunted by an underground Laotian sports mob who was intent on using subliminal, hypnotic light and radio frequencies to turn Sunstreaker into a lifeless sports drone. Sideswipe, for his part, had read enough on Earthen governments and cultures to suggest that there probably wasn't an underground Laotian sports mob, and that even if there was, they probably didn't care to enslave Sunstreaker to their ways. But Sunstreaker was convinced. They, along with his room, were out to get him. 

"I'm not messing around, Sideswipe," Sunstreaker was railing one evening, his voice taking on an almost frantic note. "I can't live in that room. I went to Ironhide, and he told me to shove it, so I went to Prowl to try to get him to make you switch with me, and even _he_ told me to shove it, and now I'm here talking to you. And you better as slag give me your room."

"You went to _Prowl_?" Sideswipe gaped. "What the hell for?"

"Because it's not fair!" Sunstreaker wailed. "It's not fair, because my room doesn't bother you, but it bothers me, and your room _doesn't_ bother me, so it's only fair that you should switch with me!"

He was really fritzing now, and Sideswipe could see the almost deranged light in his brother's optics. This whole room thing really was bugging him. "But Sunstreaker," he tried, exasperated, "there is _nothing_…_wrong_…_with_…_your_…_ROOM_."

In a display of supreme maturity, Sunstreaker hauled off and kicked the wall. "Yes there is! And I can't stay in it one more minute!"

"You just dented my wall!" Sideswipe cried, one hand on his helmet. "What the slag!"

"I don't care," Sunstreaker seethed. "I want this room, and I am prepared to harass you to your grave if you don't give it to me."

Sideswipe drew himself up, fists balled, optics drawn to beady slits. He thought seriously of pulling out his piledrivers. Instead, he said in a tight voice, "You know what? FINE. Have the room. I'm done."

And with that, he began dismantling his bunk.

* * *

They'd drawn a crowd by then, mostly consisting of mechs who had begun betting on the outcome of this little argument. It had been escalating for weeks now, and Smokescreen was positively glowing with scandalous levels of glee at how many bets he'd taken. Sideswipe made a mental note to extract a few credits from his hide later, one way or the other. 

Snarling, Sideswipe stormed from his room to his brother's, dragging his own things in, and throwing his brothers things out the door with enough force to dent the bulkhead, and send a few of the grinning onlookers scurrying for safety. He even did Sunstreaker the courtesy of ripping his brother's bunk from its struts, and hurling it with all his might down the hall, where it bounced off the floor, walls, and Jazz a few times before spinning to a stop somewhere near the end of the hall. Having flung the last of his brother's crap, he seared Sunstreaker with a glare, and bellowed, "And STAY OUT!"

With that, he slammed the door.

The crowd broke into applause.

* * *

Things were quiet then. Moodily, Sideswipe put together his new quarters, taking care to note that it was stench-free, level-floored, quiet, and exactly the same size as his old room. With a grunt, he shoved his bunk into place, and threw himself viciously down to try to catch some sleep. Stupid piece of slag brother. Sideswipe may have lost his room, but he'd made up his mind about one thing: He was never speaking to Sunstreaker again. Not one slagging damn word. 

Hours passed. The noise out in the hall dwindled. No one dared knock on his door, and Sideswipe had to give the other Autobots a little credit for being somewhat smart. He was in no mood, and if he was going to do any more talking tonight, it would be with his piledrivers. Of that, he was certain.

It was a little past 2200 hours when Sideswipe heard the knock. He ignored it. The door slid open anyway. Laying on his back, fingers laced over his chestplate, Sideswipe cursed himself for forgetting to hit the locks.

"Side?" came the tentative voice.

Sideswipe said nothing.

Sunstreaker took a step into the room.

Still, Sideswipe said nothing.

"Side?" his brother began once more. "You know my new room?" He waited for a response from his brother, and got none. "Well," he said, when the silence had dragged out for approximately two eternities, "it's too big."

For one clear, cold moment, Sideswipe did not move. And then, almost without thinking, he flung himself from the bunk, stalked across the room, and without a word, began laying into the wall with his piledrivers. Out of the corner of his optic, he saw his brother's jaw drop, but either Sunstreaker was too surprised or too smart to try to get in Sideswipe's way, and within minutes the wall between their rooms sported a brand, shiny new door, ragged edges and all.

Without pausing, and while Sunstreaker stood gaping at him like he was a lunatic, Sideswipe began once more with the process of flinging everything he owned through the door. Bunk, desk, chair, personal belongings, datapads, tools, everything, he stuffed through the hole in the wall. Then, welder in hand, he slammed his bunk down on top of Sunstreaker's, welded the legs to the posts, and at last threw himself with a growl onto the top bunk.

Hesitantly, and looking as though he suspected that Sideswipe had flipped his last breaker, Sunstreaker let himself carefully through the jagged hole. He stood for a minute, surveying the rabble of things strewn on the floor, the new sleeping arrangements, and the seething mech on the top bunk. Then, with a sort of a hitch of his shoulders, the yellow warrior waded through the mess and lay peaceably down on his own bunk.

"I figure we'll fix the door in the morning," Sideswipe snapped.

"I'll help," Sunstreaker replied mildly from the bunk below. He added, "So…what do we do with our extra room?"

"Entertainment center."

"Oooh, good idea."

"I figure so."

"Hey, Side?"

"What?"

"I figure this room's about right now," Sunstreaker told him.

Sideswipe rolled his optics, and threw himself over onto his left side. "Night, bro," he grumbled.

Below him, Sunstreaker shifted around. "Night," he said, sounding pacified at last, and as they both drifted off, Sideswipe couldn't help but wonder how the betting pool had turned out, and who Smokescreen would say had won this round.


	4. It Does Not Boast

"What in Primus' name is wrong with them?" Optimus thundered as he roared down the highway, Prowl racing along at his left. "Do they think, for one moment, that they are acting like the Autobots they profess to be? I mean, are they _kidding_?"

"I told you," Prowl snapped in an uncharacteristic temper. "I told you from day one that something was wrong with them."

"Well, nice time for an I-told-you-so moment, Prowl," Prime retorted.

"Well, I did!" Prowl barked. "But _you_ wouldn't listen, because _you_ thought the most elite unit in the Autobot army ought to include a couple of clown-pants-wearing criminal morons. And now that you got your way, who gets to deal with them? Me!"

"Oh is that so?" Prime gunned his engine, picking up speed and sending up clouds of dust in his wake.

"Yes, it's so," Prowl snapped back, surging forward at a nice clip, and edging his nose just out in front of Prime's bumper. "They're in my office more often than I am, Primus-frag it, and they have been since the day you brought them into this outfit. Do you remember the time they tried to sell Cliffjumper on the Iaconian underground? Primus_ almighty_! They almost managed it, too!"

"Oh, you think that's bad?" Prime shot back, angrier than he remembered being in a long time. Deep inside, he secretly thought the attempted sale of Cliffjumper was sort of funny, but right now Prime was seeing a film of red, and if those two bloody useless Lamborghini _twits_ had been present just now, Prime was sure he would throttle them until their heads popped off. As it was, he could hear himself hollering at his XO the top of his vocalizer, and no matter how he tried, he just couldn't bring himself to stop.

"You think that's bad?" he heard himself hammering away. "Try the time they started their own version of Fight Club, and nearly lost me half my unit in one night. As if this boring little war wasn't exciting enough for them! And not only that, they couldn't even manage to bang up a bunch of Decepiticons, oh, no! No, they organized a Fight Club with other _Autobots_, and damn near whaled the tar out of the entire northern front, the sodding little bastard glitches."

"Rotten little slaggers," Prowl snarled, and sent a rock flying up behind him as he uttered a rare curse, all in a fit of froth. "Do you _realize_ that I was _twice_ elected Preeminent of the Iaconian courts? Twice! Primus, I drafted the second and fifth Articles of Accord during the last Golden Age. And what am I now? A glorified cop and a babysitter for the two most morally challenged slots I have ever _seen_."

"Oh yeah?" Prime shot back. "Well, try being hand-picked by Alpha Trion himself to be the leader and moral paragon of the almighty Autobot Way. I'm a Prime, dammit, a _Prime_! And how do I spend my time? Defending humans and Autobots alike? Fighting the spread of evil? No! And why am I not doing these things? Why? Because right now, I'm on my way down to the Oregon State Patrol Headquarters to explain to the Chief of Police just exactly _why_ those two slagging monkey-aft degenerates decided to make it their goal in life to earn their one-thousandth speeding ticket in the state of Oregon alone. Do you know they're wanted in four other states?"

"Five, if you count Idaho, but so far they aren't pressing charges," Prowl fumed. "I swear – I _swear_ – I have never seen two more morally bereft beings in my life. For Primus' sake, _Grimlock_ has a better grasp of ethics."

"Slag has a better grasp of ethics," Prime growled back, "and I'm not talking about the Dinobot."

"I _swear_," Prowl railed on, fairly skimming the pavement now, "I don't know how they can even call themselves _Autobots_, the morally decrepit little rodents. Because between you and me? They're more trouble than half the Decepticon forces put together. Autobots," Prowl ranted, really carrying on and sounding (if it were possible) quite nearly at the point of a tantrum, "Autobots stand for what is right! We have a moral code, _and we uphold it_! We don't break the law! We –"

"—we sacrifice ourselves for the greater good," Prime broke in. "And we do not, for the love of Primus, break every traffic law in the humans' book simply because we are bored and stupid!"

"We don't sell our fellow Autobots on the slave market!"

"Or redivert supply lines to fuel an all-night rave!"

"Or home-brew field stims and sell them to new recruits!"

"We don't cheat!"

"Or indefinitely borrow!"

"Or tell creative interpretations of the truth!"

"And above all," Prowl shouted, his frame all but radiating with untold fury, "an Autobot does not – under any circumstances, barring loss of life or limb – break the Primus-sodding speed limit!"

"Well, this does it," Prime seethed, rocketing down the freeway and sending up angry belches of exhaust. "I have had it up to my stacks with these ludicrous slagging monkey-shine antics, and I am laying down the law. As of this morning's memo, the very next Autobot – _or his pigslag of a brother_ – to get a speeding ticket is going to find himself grounded in the brig. And _that_ is the end of _THAT_."

And with that, the sirens wailed to life, as red and blue lights began to flicker in Prime's rear view mirror.

* * *

Back at the ranch, Grimlock leaned in toward the monitor, the small fingers of his Tyrannosaurus clicking together in glee. "What you say?"

The stocky human on the other end uttered a short, sharp sigh. "I said," he repeated, "they were going in excess of 135 miles per hour, which is, of course, reckless driving, and will mean a court hearing. Look, isn't there someone there who's…in charge?"

Grimlock smiled, teeth glittering widely under the Ark's internal lighting. "Grimlock in charge today."

Wilting, the officer on the other end gave him a rather incredulous look. "Are you sure?"

"Oh," Grimock nodded, his saurian grin stretched wide, "Grimlock _real_ sure."

"Well," the officer shrugged, and hitched up a shoulder, "I guess…" He trailed off, scratching his head and peering at Grimlock as though he were trying to figure out why someone's pet was running the Autobots' show. But at last he just sighed again, relented, and said, "Look, just send someone down to sign for them and escort them back, will you?"

"Oh, Grimlock do that," the Dinobot commander canted his head, his optics glinting bright and jolly. "And you no worry – me, Grimlock, know just who to send."


	5. It Is Not Proud

Prowl stared, stone-faced, at the bars of the brig. Across from him, Prime sat in his own cell with a similar look on his face.

Outside in the aisle, Grimlock dangled a datapad in front of Prime's cell. "Optimus Prime," he was saying, "Grimlock read morning memo – _this_ morning memo," he repeated, dangling the datapad again for emphasis, "that you, Optimus Prime, send to Autobots and to us Dinobots, too. Though not sure why you send to Dinobots, since us no have wheels to do 'speeding' thing. But you send, and now me, Grimlock, have."

Prime tried but did not quite manage not to sigh. "Yes, Grimlock, I know the memo."

"That you, Optimus Prime, send," Grimlock reiterated, one finger firmly tapping the datapad.

"Yes, I know, Grimlock," Prime muttered.

Grimlock drew himself up, one hand on his help, and held the memo up for Prime to see. "And this memo say," he said, elevating his voice and very clearly enjoying himself, "that very next Autobot to do speeding thing go _directly to brig_."

"Grimlock—"

"No pass go."

"Grimlock –"

"No collect two hundred dollars."

Prime sighed heavily.

"Prime own words."

Prime said nothing.

"In fact," Grimlock went on, hand still on his hip, "not only you _not_ get two hundred dollars, you Optimus Prime, and you, Autobot Prowl, cost Autobots four hundred and fifty-one dollars. And that before court cost." The Dinobot jabbed the datapad in Prime's direction. "That a lot of money, you know."

"Yes, Grimlock, I know." Prime rubbed a thumb and forefinger between his optics.

Looking purely sanctimonious, Grimlock returned his gaze to the datapad. "It say in police report that you, Optimus Prime, lose temper and say 'profanity' at escort that me, Grimlock send to pick you up."

"Well, you sent the twins!" Prime burst, hands splayed.

But Grimlock only chortled and cached the datapad, apparently finished with using it as a prop in his Torment-the-Autobot-Commander campaign. "Well," he straightened, and Prowl could swear that there was a detectable smirk underneath the Dinobot's mask, "you, Optimus, enjoy time in brig."

"Listen, Grimlock," Prime said, rubbing his temples now, "will you just have my current workload downloaded onto a datapad so I can get some things done while I'm in here?"

"What?" Grimlock's optics brightened. "This not room service. There no minty for pillow, and no datapad for you neither. Hnn." The Dinobot snorted, and tossed both Prowl and Prime an incredulous look, though not without every indication that he was utterly enjoying this moment. "No, you Optimus, and you, Prowl, just sit and think about what you done. Yes," the Dinobot nodded to himself, "me think that best idea of all."

And with a sweep and a hmph, his Majesty Horrificus Rex quit the room.

"Well," Prowl stated when the Dinobot was gone.

"Well," Prime replied, staring through blank optics.

"It could be worse," Prowl attempted to supply some positive thinking.

On cue, a remarkably familiar red arm snaked silently around the corner, and before Prowl could register what was happening, the tactician found himself blinded by a flash. Quick as a whip, the arm retreated, digital camera in tow, and Sideswipe trotted off down the hallway with a malevolent snort of glee.

"I could have him put out of our misery, you know," Prime said after many minutes of silence.

"Ah," Prowl nodded sagely, "but you would need to come down from your moral high horse to do so. Or so the humans would put it."

"What about contracting the Decepticons to do it?"

"Still not moral," Prowl shook his head.

"Ordering ourselves set loose so I can go do it myself?"

Prowl paused, leaned back, and laced his fingers over his middle. "Questionably moral," he allowed, "provided that you left him alive, and then came back to finish the rest of your self-imposed brig sentence. Though you would be in breach of your own incarceration orders."

Prime thought a moment, leaning back himself and stretching his legs out in front of him. "What if," he proposed, "I ordered him to be brought to me here, so I could get my hands on him without leaving my cell? Could I put him out of my misery then?"

"Well," Prowl replied, closing his optics and settling himself in, "it would not be moral to kill him."

"Not even if I promised to do penance?"

"No."

"And sent a gift basket to his brother?"

"No. Not remotely moral."

Prime sighed, and from the scrape of metal on metal, Prowl surmised that the other Autobot was settling himself in as well. "Well, it's no good if I can't kill him. He'll just wake up again after a pounding."

"Too true."

"So we're in here for a week then," Prime caved.

"Looks like," Prowl replied.

"With our morals intact."

"Sadly, yes."

A moment passed, during which Prime was presumably turning the matter over in his head. "So," he said after a pause, "if I were to spend my week in here _imagining_ ways to kill him, but not actually follow through…is that moral?"

Without opening his optics, Prowl offered a ghost of a smile. "Yes," he replied, "that would be quite moral."

"Well then," Prime uttered a short, satisfied sigh as he shifted and settled again.

"Well, indeed," Prowl replied, and, still smiling, settled in for a very long week.


End file.
